


and his teeth grew long

by tinclown



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Character Death, Fantastic Racism, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, M/M, Murder, Other, Prequel, Thalmor, Unrequited Love, Vampires, Wacky Shenanigans Between Lovable Scamps, i guess, minor but it's there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-10-24 15:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17706629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinclown/pseuds/tinclown
Summary: in which a thalmor agent with too much time on his hands makes a mistake that costs him very, very dearly





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi! so! i've only ever posted any of my writing anywhere once and then i deleted it from there. i'm not used to this! i have never used ao3 in my life! i am anxious and confused! i hope my fic is adequate anyway! critique would be very appreciated ;3c
> 
> i think i've got it tagged right? please let me know if i don't hhhh
> 
> i'll probably be uploading chapters weekly, i've got them all finished except the last one, which i'm working on the ending of? yeehaw

Tilmellor was no fool, in any sense of the word. He liked to believe his eyes were sharp and his tongue was sharper; his mind was calculating and cold, his face void of expression. He was well-born and well-educated, and it was much to his delight that he was able to express this to those he felt were lesser than he--his schooling in Alinor was nothing short of the best and it was something worthy of boasting. Combining that with the training he received to become an agent of the Thalmor yielded the result of an air of superiority radiating from him, from the perfectly disciplined stance he held to the neat, clean way he made sure to speak and keep himself. Yet, despite his discipline, he stood here-in this decrepit mage's tower, hands balled into fists and near shaking with rage, hissing threats from his clenched teeth.

The mage owning the tower was an easy to underestimate foe. They appeared primarily Dunmer in appearance, which he found no surprise due to their supposed Telvanni bloodline, but the slightly rounder edge of their ear and odd, unsettling discoloration of their eyes suggested that they likely had some sort of human blood. Normally, it would be foolish to underestimate a mage of their particular heritage, but this one had not only abandoned the house long ago--for reasons unknown to him--they weren't even fully elven. There would be no wrath from the Great House were anything to go particularly awry, no immunity to protect them. He didn't see much threat in them anyway, really. They were slight, of a shorter build--from Breton blood, perhaps?--and their skin was a ghastly, concerning pale. Their breathing was uneven and rasping as though they were unused to it and not for the first time, Tilmellor questioned if they were ill. Bruise-colored bags had settled beneath their eyes, the orange-yellow pupil going from dead still to flicking rapidly about the room with seemingly no pattern.

He was sent there on the suspicion that the mage might've been hosting Talos worshippers, and the notice that they were exhibiting relatively suspicious behavior. They had, allegedly, been seen inviting Nords into their home on several occasions, with only some leaving. An agent had mentioned that they'd seen strange amulets passed between the mage and their guests, some, they believed, resembling amulets of the Nordic false-god. This wouldn't have warranted any investigation, normally--they was primarily a Dunmer, more than likely just a whore--but when any Thalmor they sent near the tower had started vanishing, their disgust grew quickly into suspicion. 

So, as he was a capable agent and if need be, an _exquisite_ interrogator, it was he who was assigned to the task.

When he was given authority over the case, he'd immediately sent out a light-footed Khajiit spy, who staked out the tower for several days, but any information she'd gathered had seemed to only make the mage appear more and more odd. According to the cat, the mage never actually _left_ the tower during the entire time they were observed. Any window in the building had been covered or blocked, and on the occasion that they weren't--which, also strangely, was always at night--there never seemed to be any light emitting from within.

At one point during the later days, the spy, whose name Tilmellor did eventually learn was Dar'ara--notes that she _did_ see some light, on one of the nights that a few of the windows weren't covered. The soft, floating blue glow indicated that the mage had been using light to navigate the tower-which destroyed a small theory that they were just blind-but it wasn't actually lit with any torches. Or permanent Magelights. They had, theoretically, spent all this time moving around with the use of only the Candlelight spell.

Which, Tilmellor had to admit, made him relatively curious.

If they were hosting heretical Talos worshippers, surely the Nords wouldn't be able to cast the same spell as they, resulting in them navigating blindly. That would be _truly_ idiotic though; races of men were destructive and klutzy enough, to add a lack of sight on top of that, especially with a Nord, would surely destroy anything within the confines of the tower. Considering that the resident was a mage, and a Telvanni no less, they surely had artifacts that they wouldn't want destroyed? Yet--Dar'ara had confirmed, there was no other light there.

He'd contacted his superiors without a second of thought about it. As quickly as the letter was written, he had still made sure that his penmanship remained impeccable and his wording was descriptive and well. Even if he was eager to see what could come of this, there was no room for error anywhere, and making the higher-ups believe he was getting sloppy could almost be grounds for re-education. The moment his quill left the parchment, though, he was sealing it shut and shoving it in the hands of a courier; one of the Thalmor's, of course--there wasn't the slightest chance he would dare allow the filthy hands of some _peasant_ touch the delicate, heavily coded information.

The letter he'd gotten in response had been disappointing, really. Short, curt sentences and a tangible lack of interest were all that met him and he felt, momentarily, _very_ bitter towards the answer he got along with the person who wrote it. He quickly tamped down that resentment. Instead, he pondered on the end of the letter. In the looping, neat handwriting he searched for excuses.

_'If there is no evidence of what we search for, there is no reason to fixate on it._

_Bring us something substantial if you don't wish for your usefulness to run out._

_\--R'_

They clearly believed that it was a futile interest; Talos worship was what they were hunting out, and if the mage wasn't worshipping Talos nor hosting any who did, it was best left an odd experience and abandoned. Yet, Tilmellor thought--was it not logical to believe that they could stand a threat? Their odd behavior was such that Tilmellor hadn't encountered previously, and while it was true that the Telvanni were an odd lot, this one hadn't been to Morrowind in _decades_ , much less associated with House business. Surely there would have to be something more present. It was only sensible that he would keep his suspicions.

So, that next morning, he sent Dar'ara to resume her work. She seemed confused at first-- _"Is it not more profitable to find better opportunities?"_ \--but he had quickly reminded her that he was trusted with this for good reason. Much to his surprise, it had only taken words and a long, bitter glare before she shrugged and accepted her job. He had assured her that they would work on this for as long as it took, sticking his nose up with what he supposed _could_ be considered arrogance.

For the first three days, there remained no change--they didn't leave, there weren't any lights, and of course, the windows remained almost entirely blocked. Once during the first week, on a Fredas evening, the mage had left covered in a cloak and hood. It had been late when they left, the sun beginning to settle low atop the hills, and even later when they returned--followed by a Nord man. The mage had invited him in, seemingly welcoming. The Nord swayed on his feet, speaking in a loud, jovial voice. His bright and cheery demeanor didn't seem to deter the emotionless exterior of the mage. The blank demeanor could put even Tilmellor to shame, yet the Nord didn't seem to notice or didn't seem to care--it was quite obvious that whoever he was, he was definitively not sober.

When the door closed behind the pair, Dar'ara had made a dart for it. Not to enter, no--she stopped just outside it, still sitting in the shadow of the building. Her ears perked and strained, listening for any slip of information she could garner; the fort had been well made, but it was old, and surely there were gaps in the stones. 

The Nord's voice met her ears first. His voice was the sort that was made for grabbing attention, the kind you'd expect from a fiery preacher, claiming to have been sent by the Divines himself; his drunken tone ruined the illusion of that possibility. "You're not one a' them whose--one a' them with the magic, are you?" he slurred.

There was a quiet hum from the mage, accompanied by the sound of keys clicking together and into a lock. "I am, yes."

The mage's 'guest' responded with a sound of shock that likely would've sounded more genuine, had it not been for the fact that the man sounded on the brink of passing out. "Are you one of them with the, the gold-an'-silver spell? Transformute? I've got lots a' silver I could be turnin' to gold. Could be--could be getting a better house than what I got. Making riches to rival all the Jarls of all the holds combined," he rambled. A door creaked open. From the gaps in the wall Dar'ara could smell something--off. Like pieces of copper.

"Transmute, yes, I know it. Do not worry, Hokstaag. You won't need to think of money ever again." 

The sentence bore a feeling of ominous finality to it, the sudden sweet notes of the mage's voice a stark change from their usual oddly-accented tone. Footsteps retreated down a set of stairs, the door creaking shut behind them. Dar'ara leaned heavier against the wall, but she was resigned to the fact that there was no chance of her hearing anything else.

She'd returned with the information the second the sun began creeping above the hills, darting back to his designated 'office'. From the delivery of her report, Tilmellor could figure that she was gaining interest in the case as well as he. Tapping a hand against his chin, he decided it'd be harmless to act on a hunch just once. He'd dug through nigh-unholy amounts of paperwork, but he found the record he'd been searching for soon enough--a record of the fort, from the Imperial Legion precisely one-hundred six years ago, when it was still in use. His guess was partly correct; the fort _did_ actually have a basement. However, it wasn't accessible. The way the staircase walls were built had been faulty, and there had been a small rock slide that resulted in it being cut off. The soldiers had deemed it not worth repairing--the rest of the fort had been more than enough room, until most of it collapsed save for the tower and it had been abandoned. 

The tower, which the mage had eventually bought and began to live in, did have the door to the basement in it. So, it did exist and Dar'ara had heard right--their steps had been descending. The mage must've fixed the steps, then, but that opened as many questions as it had closed. Some of which he could answer himself, others whose answers still eluded him. The recurring theme seemed to be the question of _why_ fix it? Surely the basement wasn't worth whatever they must've paid or the time wasted to fix it? Chances are it had been nothing but a room to store weapons. Though, they were a mage. So, more than likely, they repaired it for storing alchemy ingredients, or artifacts, or an enchanting table. That, however, raised the second question; why would they be bringing someone down to a _storage room?_

Tilmellor gnawed at his nails, his gloves discarded. It was a habit he had as a child--a nervous tic, but his parents had found it distasteful and foolish. They would be surely disappointed to see him now, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. They were dead anyway. Dead people don't get opinions on the living's business.

The door opening caused him to jump, spinning towards the source of the sound. His idiotic paranoia was quelled the second he saw it was none other than his supervisor. A face-splitting grin almost got the chance to crawl across his face, but he quickly curbed the instinct. It would be simply unprofessional, and he was nothing if not professional. He would radiate elegance and respectability this entire meeting or so help him he would _destroy himself_. So, instead of meeting him with a grin, he met him with a nod and reached out to shake his hand.

"Ruverion, truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance," he greeted politely.

"Tilmellor," Ruverion said coolly, sitting in the chair across from him. "I believe we've business to discuss." 

"Oh, indeed we do." Tilmellor nodded, distantly hoping his eagerness wouldn't show through. Professional. Stay professional. It would be truly beneficial to have support for his efforts, and to earn that support he would need to show that he was a professional. That he absolutely knew what he was doing--which he did. "You see, about the case I was assigned--"

"Yes, about that matter," Ruverion interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "You need not work on that anymore. It remains of no interest to the Thalmor's cause."

Whatever Tilmellor was expecting to hear, it hadn't been this. His heart dropped to his stomach and he was sure it could be seen on his face. "I--I don't believe that--if I may, I would argue that while it may not be _blatantly_ Talos worship, it is notably suspicious behavior and would best be investigated!"

His superior's gaze rose to stare him in the eyes. Picking at his flawless nails, Ruverion took his time before he spoke his response. A response that, like anything else he did, came out cold and precise; and, while in a normal circumstance Tilmellor would've admired it, today it left him feeling sorely dejected.

"Unless there is any sign of Talos worship occurring, I see no reason why any investigation should continue. Your talents are best spent elsewhere, would you not agree?"

"But there is!" Tilmellor interjected. The moment the words escaped his mouth, he felt his face pale--the terror of _lying_ to a higher-up was all consuming--but he couldn't lose the case. "There is evidence--not plenty but there is reason to believe this mage could be performing--performing--rituals! Rituals in the name of Talos!" 

He stared at Ruverion, teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek. Tension gripped his shoulders and he futilely tried to beat the guilt and regret clawing at his stomach, but it grew stronger with each second that the other Altmer didn't respond. As he was about to open his mouth to begin grovelling for forgiveness, though, he got his answer.

"Well. I suppose if there is evidence, then... You can resume your work."

Glee struck him like an arrow, a smile crawling onto his face. Ruverion stared at him with distaste, but he didn't find it within himself to be ashamed. "Thank you, thank you so much for this!--"

"Don't get too happy. Unless you bring solid evidence, you will _only_ be working with what you already are allowed. Two spies at maximum." The disgust was palpable in Ruverion's voice. He stood up quickly, just barely keeping an outright glare from his gaze. "I do hope you're not wasting our time with this, Tilmellor. It would be truly saddening if something were to have to be done about you."

"Do trust me, Ruverion. I assure you--I shan't disappoint."

***

It was three months, a quarter of a year, before Tilmellor began to devise their routine out of what information he had. His two spies, Dar'ara and a short, stocky Bosmer boy hardly nineteen named Taindor took shifts in watching and scouring the tower, bringing him any information they could scrounge up. By himself, he sorted the information and notes, jotting down potential connections between them and noting various details that he could find. It was tedious, often, but he was determined. He wasn't going to make this be a waste of time.

Three months ago he had his conversation with Ruverion, five months ago that he'd started on this. It was nearing a half-year, then, since it began.

They seemed to have a relatively consistent routine, from what the spies got on the outside. Twice a week, Fredas and Morndas, they would dash out of their house, cloaked, just as the sun was setting. They would be gone for hours. They wouldn't go in the same direction twice, unless there were at least three weeks between. When they returned, after dark, they usually weren't cloaked. They would guide whoever they had with them--often someone intoxicated, obviously high off skooma or drunk or just generally _dazed_ \--into the tower. They would unlock the door, and go to the basement. No one except the mage was ever heard or seen in the house. The people never came out of the basement.

From blackmail and flashing around his Thalmor authority, he'd managed to gather records and information about some of the people--because it wasn't always Nords, he'd learned--who had disappeared. Names, ages, places they lived, places they went. He'd gathered their routines, their jobs, information about their families. Health records, religious beliefs, anything he believed could even potentially be of use to him. Yet, he didn't see it. He didn't see the connection, the type, the bigger picture. Yes, the mage seemed to primarily go for Nordic men. They met a lot of people at taverns, seemingly. But--this was Skyrim. Everyone spent all their time in taverns and the majority of the population was Nords. The mage didn't seem to have a true preference. They just...took people.

_Lavitrix, an Imperial woman, 30 years of age, no living family. Weak knees. Ex-Legion._  
Andjorg, a Nord man. Unremarkable. 44 years of age, a wife and children. A woodcutter.  
Lassner, a Nord man. 27, had a daughter, the town drunk.  
Thetlius, a Breton man, 29, no known family. A scholar.  
Domeen, a Redguard. 63. Gone.  
Vites, Imperial. 22. Gone  
Tition. Herod. Lynorae. Gone. Gone. Gone. 

Tilmellor slammed his fists on his desk, furious. It didn't connect. None of them--none of them were connected. Different holds, towns, settlements. Different careers and races and appearances. It didn't matter who they were, if they would go with the mage then the mage would take them. 

They didn't have a lead yet. A quarter of a year and Aedra take them, they didn't have a _fucking_ lead. Gods above.

He paced the room, chewing his nails and anxiously glancing out the window. The sun was lower in the sky than it was last he looked. It was about three hours before the mage would be leaving again. He couldn't remember who was watching them today--had he seen Taindor here, earlier? Or was he out, stalking through the trees like a predator with prey, watching and watching but never obtaining the piece they needed, never finding the threat Tilmellor needed to pull to make all the stitching come apart.

If he'd been given more materials, more people and more supplies, perhaps he could be doing better. Ruverion doubted him though, doubted his capabilities or his truthfulness or _something_ he did wrong. Some infantile mistake he made, somewhere along the way had broken up his chances at success, hadn't it? Ripped him from the ground before he'd had a chance to set his roots and abandoned him in the hot sun so he could rot in it. Salty tears stung at his eyes and he sucked in a breath. His father had been right--it would be his own foolish insecurity that undid him. How agonizingly _stupid_.

He rubbed his hands over his eyes. There was no point or productivity in getting resentful. He only needed to figure out something, anything that could make it all come together and _work_. Swallow his bitter feelings and dedicate his focus back onto what it should be on. The whole purpose of why he was in this Aedra-forsaken country.

The mage.

Standing back over his desk, he stared over at the notes he'd taken. From light, elegant cursive to late-night, sleep deprived scrawl. He counted his breaths, timing each one and tapping his fingers against the wood. The mage would be gone for hours at a time. They were a Telvanni, they were a mage, they surely would be organized. They might keep notes, journals, anything that could be of use. He only needed to gauge which of the two on his team would be able to slip in and out--if they were noticed, it could destroy their progress. The mage mustn't know they're being _watched_.

Dar'ara slowly pushed his door open, lightly stepping in--it had been her who was on watch before, then? Tilmellor chewed one of his nails, calculating stare directed at the parchment in front of him. Dar'ara swished her tail through the air, but she didn't bother with breaking the silence. It stretched on for at least another minute before Tilmellor saw fit to break it.

"Dar'ara, my dear, I may have a break for us," he spoke, barely more intelligible than a mumble. He looked up, a grin splitting his face. "Because I have an idea!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tilmellor begins to put plans into motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been waiting to upload this all week and then friday rolls around and! i almost forgot to!

The look on Dar'ara's face was caught neatly somewhere between concern and interest. The swishing of her tail grew quicker than before and she leaned slightly forward, ears pricked up. "You are saying," she started, her raspy voice having grown familiar over time. "that you want to just _send_ someone--"

"To break into the mage's tower, yes, that is what I'm saying here Dar'ara," Tilmellor interrupted, moving to hold his arms behind his back. She stared at him still, confusion in her eyes. Tilmellor sighed theatrically. "It won't be _too_ far, we've not the information yet for that! All one must do is sneak in, observe what the interior of the building looks like, where any rooms or items of particular note are and perhaps gather information to help us in future endeavors of a similar nature. They needn't even go into the basement yet. Simple!" He clasped his hands together to punctuate when he finished speaking, tilting his head to the side. 

A look of discontent rose on her face. Tilmellor tilted his head further. His neck began to grow uncomfortable.

"Alri--"

"I know how it sounds," he states, voice laced with sympathy. "It sounds like I'm sending some poor fool, blind into enemy territory. You must understand though, we've no other option." He places a hand upon her shoulder. Sympathetic, sympathetic. "If there was any other choice, I would absolutely analyze it down to its bare flesh and decide on if this one was still better. There is no other choice though. This is all we have."

Dar'ara stares at him, blankly, for a few seconds. A brief look of concern flashes across her face, but she shakes her head and sighs. "This one will find someone, then. Next Fredas. One week of preparation." 

He smiles, wider than before. "You've not a clue how much that means to me, Dar'ara. Now then, you should be off. You must find our mine a canary and they _must_ be ready," he said, his best attempt at friendliness coating each word. The light filtering into his office was growing dimmer. Taindor was out by the tower at this time. The mage would be leaving today. His fingers itched, but there was a week to go before they could have any hope at getting into the tower, at getting any sort of lead. Patience was his friend, as always. Patient, patient.

Dar'ara leaves the office. He stews in his thoughts for hours on end, but that remains nothing new to him at all. He scratches his quill across parchment and the ink comes out in looping, well-written words. A song of which he hardly remembers plays on repeat in his head, and though the words are lost to him he hums the melody anyway. As the sun begins to set upon the cold, desolate country of Skyrim, he writes out a letter to Ruverion. An update of which, for once, won't be of no real purpose. One that would actually be _sent_ , instead of him throwing it back into the fireplace, figuring it would be pointless to repeat to Ruverion things he'd already known.

That snowy Fredas would mark the start of something better, he knew. That would be the uptick in their research, the push they needed to get moving forward again, to crawl out of the standstill they'd been at for too long. He was jittery with excitement, like a child promised a gift, but with that came the impatience of knowing he must wait. A bitter resentment against time itself, or at those who offer to bring you the gift to begin with for not bending rules a bit to give it to you early. A gnawing restlessness that relented for nothing, one that he was all too familiar with. 

It mattered not, though--they stood at the brink of breakthrough, surely. For if the spy could familiarize herself with the tower, she could learn to navigate it easily. She could locate any scrap of paper with a hint of ink on it that could point him in the direction of _what_ the mage was doing, of why they were performing it; and that excitement overwrote his resentment within seconds. He could nigh _taste_ success, sitting in the back of his throat, perched as though it was a bird. He eagerly chews at his thumbnail, careful as to not disturb his precise penmanship.

The days until Morndas came and went in a blur. It was then that Dar'ara returned to his office, this time trailed by a slight Khajiit male. He was picking at a claw, tail curling around his waist. Though his posture suggested nervousness, his eyes were those of someone sharp, skilled at the art of manipulation. While he looked young, his fur still seeming to have a kitten-like quality to it and his pupils round and wide, Tilmellor already did have high hopes for the newly-recruited agent.

And he _was_ an agent--Ruverion had specified that he was to have no more than two spies, and Tilmellor was not one to disobey orders. So the newest recruit, whom Dar'ara introduced as Jodhir, wasn't a spy by any means. The spies' job was to observe, whereas Jodhir would serve more as an informant, someone directly on the field. Perhaps it was a loophole he was exploiting, yes, but it was by all means for the greater good. He was sure that his supervisor would be able to see that, if he ever found out. Ruverion was a reasonable mer.

He eagerly set out on devising a plan with the two Khajiit, working through every possible outcome, each little flaw and detail and potential threat. Jodhir proved quickly that he was well versed in his field of work, and the fake-nervous-facade broke down quickly, a headstrong confidence taking it's place. With Dar'ara's input, the threads needed were weaved together with ease, forming quick ideas and problems, solutions rising with thought placed into them. They had worked out the time the mage would leave, and knew they had at least two hours before they arrived home. As long as Jodhir was there as soon as they left, and assuming that they were right about no one else living in the tower, he could get in quick. Thankfully, while his kind were often very lacking at magic, he did at least know a simple fire spell, so he would be able to light a torch without wasting any time.

Dar'ara, of course, would be coming along and staying outside to make sure he remained safe--and, so that when the mage returned, she could resume her normal watch. They would arrive at the tower at noon--when Dar'ara would normally show up to relieve Taindor. There, they would watch and wait. When the mage left, Jodhir was to wait until they were a safe distance away, and pick the lock to make it into the tower. He was not to get into the basement, not yet--anyone who went down there never returned and Tilmellor wanted to at least know the layout of the building before he lost any people. Jodhir would light his torch and navigate, noting the general setup of the building. He was not to take anything--particularly, he wasn't allowed to take anything that he planned on selling. This was for a case, Tilmellor reminded him. 

If all went well this time 'round, they could be looking at a bigger plan. A way for them to discover what was going on. If Jodhir could learn how quick he could get in and out of the tower, he could learn how long it would take for him to take notable items and make it out without making it noticeable. Tilmellor put a lot of weight on the idea that the mage was keeping notes or journals, and if he could confirm his theory, or get the journals, he could likely find out precisely what was happening without much difficulty.

Like Dwemer automatons, the gears were set in motion and nothing could stop it. The days between Morndas and the next Fredas went by in an agonizing drag, but nothing could curb his energetic mood now. There was something big at play, something more than what they had assumed initially. This was of a more pressing matter than any sort of Talos worship; of course, he wasn't foolish enough to mention that to any of the other Thalmor. While he was near-ecstatic, he valued keeping himself out of re-education more than he wished to speak of what he was working on. Their sour, bitter moods would likely only serve to suck the joy out of the situation anyway--they'd likely accuse him of stalking some innocent, disgusting harlot who was only trying to make money. He knew better, though, than to think that the mage was innocent. The evidence was weighed heavily against them, too much for it to be coincidence.

Dar'ara and Jodhir set off as planned, two-hours before noon that Fredas. He spent most of the time between then and when Taindor arrived nervously pacing, glancing out the window at every given second and watching the sun. When the Bosmer arrived and confirmed that they'd made it, Tilmellor could've hugged him. Instead though, he sent a small smile his way and thanked him for his work, containing his joy within himself. It would be well past midnight by the time Jodhir returned, and it would be a week before Taindor set off again to take Dar'ara's place. He had no other projects to work on to bide his time--studying the mage had been his main focus the past half-year. He was sure now, though, that all the time poured into it would pay off.

He mulled over the letters he'd been sent by Ruverion--every correspondence he'd received since he arrived here, and a few older ones that he held dear were all kept in a neat file. His writing was just as cold and alluring as the rest of him, and Tilmellor felt a pang of sadness that Ruverion refused to view him as an equal. He wondered if this was what would change that. If he did find something remarkable within the confines of the tower, if Ruverion would finally break that unfeeling exterior just for him. 

It was as he pondered this that Johdir burst through his door, a triumphant expression adorned on his face. While the sudden interruption did make Tilmellor jump and almost drop the letters, he must admit that he is overjoyed to see the Khajiit. Especially considering the fact that Johdir looks near as happy as he is.

"This one has succeeded!" He announces, a fist raised to the ceiling. Tilmellor leaps to his feet and rounds the desk immediately. 

"What did you see? Did you find anything? Do you think you'd survive doing it again?"

Johdir moves both his hands in front of him in a placating gesture. "Calm yourself, sir. All the questions you have for this one will be answered as soon as possible," he purred, still smug with his victory. Tilmellor nodded, turning to the chair in front of his desk and motioning for Johdir to sit--an offer which he took gladly. The Altmer buzzed around without speaking for a moment, moving letters off his desk in favor of blank parchment and ink bottles. When he finishes his milling about, he sits back in his seat, moving his hands nonsensically in Johdir's direction.

"Draw! Draw a map of what you encountered! Oh, this information will be most helpful," the elf chattered, rubbing his hands together. He stared at Johdir as he sketched, listening patiently to him as he recounted each detail.

"The first floor is not of too much note--there is the door to the outside and to the basement--here and here. A bookshelf to the left-side when you enter, the stairs are to the right. A spiral staircase, made of stone. It does not creak, this one notices." He marked the doors with squares, the stairs in a thin spiral. He moved on to the second circle on the parchment--the second floor. "Alchemy room. Lots of barrels of ingredients, lots of shelves. Too much glass. It is one of the rooms with the light sometimes in the windows." A few scribbles marked out anywhere to avoid as to not bump into anything. "Third floor is very nice. Enchanting room and library, this one believes. Lots of books, lots of weapons. Very nice room." 

Johdir took a pause before looking up at Tilmellor, a faint confusion in his eyes. "This one... was not informed that the mage had a pet. Fourth floor, locked. Broke all the picks trying to get in, did not work. Heard squeaking though, like rats crawling about. Odd, since would it not be where they slept?"

Tilmellor chewed on his lip for a moment, processing all the information he now had. "Rats? Hmm. Suppose they are odd, but that seems not of interest. Did you see all the book titles? Any journals, diaries? Do you think you could do this again, make it into the fourth floor? Really get digging, all that," he begins, a long tangent sitting on his tongue. "Don't mistake what I'm saying--you have done plenty already, but plenty often isn't enough to complete missions. When do you think you could--oh, you look quite confused?"

Johdir's ear flicked. "I did not read the titles, no. This one was more focused on making sure he would not be turned into any sort of experiment. This one can do it again, of course, many times--but..."

" _But?_ "

The Khajiit blinks, tilts his head. "Before Johdir left, he stopped outside the basement door and listened." Tilmellor's interest, already heightened, by that point could've rivaled the Throat of the World. "There was not sound, but there was smell. Coppery, fleshy scent--decay. Blood. This one feels that there is something very bad going on behind that door," Johdir finished, his confident expression dropped in favor of one of dread. Tilmellor began chewing at the edge of his index finger's nail, staring down at the map. While the news about the basement was...interesting, it didn't matter--what mattered was he had a way into the tower, information gathered and more to come.

"No worries, Johdir. As long as you're careful, nothing bad will happen to you. Everything you're doing, I assure you, is for the greater good." The high elf smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring expression, reaching over and placing his hand on the Khajiit's arm. "Everything we do is for the greater good."

* * *

It was a bright and cold day, the sun shining down on unmelting snow, its light kiss a taste of what Ruverion _could've_ had, were he not stationed in this miserable place. A reminder that instead of the soft sand of Summurset beaches and the tall, remarkable Alinor architecture, he was stuck with icy ground and the distant sound of horkers slamming their weight onto the ground. The sky shone a depressing grey-blue in contrast to the colors of home. The people covered themselves head-to-toe in furs, their pale, human skin adjusted to the temperatures. Many of them glared as he walked by, which he found unsurprising. He made sure to glare back at them anyway, though. The locals weren't fond of Thalmor. Especially not ones who were walking among them.

Though, it wasn't his choice to be lumped with the common rabble. The one reason he was out in this weather and this part of Skyrim was to make sure that Tilmellor was doing his job. The man was loyal, truly. His complete devotion to the Thalmor showed, and it was one of his more positive traits. Anything else he could say about him, however, wasn't quite as kind. His over-enthusiasm made him a headache to work with, and it was only because he wasn't out representing them that he'd made it this far with it. His constant obsession with things completely pointless was obnoxious as well, but as long as Ruverion could make him move that focus to the things that mattered, he would continue working beneath them. The man served as a nuisance at worst and an asset at best.

His breath came out in puffs of visible condensation, a chill sinking deep into his bones. He mumbled several Altmeri swears under his breath, and one of the guards with him does turn and give him a subtle disapproving look. He directs his glare at her, next. Their feet crunch out of sync on the ice, the only remaining sound once they leave the Nordic town behind. He deems it much an improvement--the chatter of the village, no matter how small it was, grated on his nerves to a severe extent.

Had it been anyone else, they likely would've found the quiet of the trek to be uncomfortable, but to Ruverion--and probably his guards--it was a blessing. He found speaking to anyone beneath him to be quite tedious, an activity best left avoided if it wasn't necessary. Especially when he was on his way to speak to someone whom he didn't have any choice about conversing with.

They were leaving the worst area of cold, heading into the (only _slightly_ ) more moderate region of Skyrim. If they remained uninterrupted, they could probably make it come an hour-past-noon, which meant that if he was quick, he could leave the meeting before dark. Meaning they would have no reason to have to (gods forbid) stay anywhere near Tilmellor. The other Altmer was tolerable only in small doses; even if they didn't have to stay near him, he really didn't feel like being around anyone else much either. Tedious little people with tedious little lives who enjoyed wasting his time, they all were.

Ruverion was a high-ranking Thalmor, and he hadn't gotten there through no work. He'd done plenty of things to get where he was--many of them very, very bloody. He didn't quite see why he had to waste time that could be spent on far more productive things wasting time talking to the lesser people, but he figured that someone had to do it and, chances were, he could do it better than whoever would be the second option. So, though he could've been out destroying the family of some Talos-worshipping heathens, he resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to deal with where he was. There was no real point in getting mad over it--soon enough, the higher-ups would realize his worth and get him back somewhere warm and actually _enjoyable_ to be stationed. As long as he was diligent and cooperative.

If he had any sort of luck, they would realize sooner rather than later, and he could get stationed somewhere that had better food. The taste of horker meat was still stuck in the back of his throat, filling him with disgust whenever he remembered it. Repusively greasy, poorly cooked and generally _awful_ were all the words he could use to describe most food he had eaten in Skyrim thus far. While he was sure the local barbarians might find it delicious, he was from somewhere that had _taste_. Oh, how he missed the Isles.

Of course, he had to quit reminiscing of home soon; particularly considering that if everything went well, he could be back there quick. As it was, they were coming up on the office of which Tilmellor was staying in. A quaint little building--built of stone and wood out in the middle of nowhere. Presumably, it had belonged to some Nord before they killed him. The building had been kept in well enough shape though, remaining as a station for agents sent to this province. Ruverion knocked on the door as he approached, standing with his hands folded behind his back. There was the sound of shuffling of papers and feet before Tilmellor opened the door, an obnoxiously unprofessional smile upon his face. 

"Hello, Tilmellor."

"Ruverion, do come in! I have updates most delightful!"

Repressing a grimace, he entered the building. The top room served as an office and kitchen, with a fireplace and pot to one wall and a desk and chairs to the other. Ruverion took a seat, his guards standing by the door. Tilmellor poured him tea without offering, and he drank it without thanking him. They had performed this dance many a time. Tilmellor would act as though he were a delighted host and this was some sort of party, and Ruverion would keep things directed towards business. It was routine, expected.

Tilmellor sat down across from him, folding his hands atop his desk. "As you are aware, I am performing research into a suspicious mage," he began, his speech sounding all-too-obviously-rehearsed. Ruverion can't tell if he expects a response and, frankly, doesn't care enough to bother. He gives a faint nod, and that is apparently enough for Tilmellor. " _Well,_ I'm sure you'll be _very_ pleased to know that I have made great progress since my last report to you!" 

His excitement is obvious, tangible in the air. He gathers papers scattered about the room and sets them in front of Ruverion with, once more, a rehearsed sort of precision. Ruverion finds himself almost flattered at the clear desperation to impress, but mostly finds it to be quite pointless. Without wasting more time than has already been wasted, he picks up the papers and begins to scan over them. 

His apathetic irritation dissolves into...concern, quite quickly.

There's an extreme amount of information, that much is true, but none of it pertains to Talos worship. The scrawl aligning the parchment details the exact movements of the resident of the tower, analyzing the patterns of directions they go in, the towns they tend to "target", when they're home and when they aren't. Which, logically, the Thalmor do have similar files to this. Except, the precision on this is unlike that of Tilmellor's normal skill level; combined with the rest of the papers, it's quite discontenting.

Maps. The man has honest-to-god _maps_ of the mage's house. Crude ones give way to more and more detailed ones, until they begin to mark which floorboards creak and which stones are movable in the walls. Which book is what on the shelves, where exactly every bit of furniture is down to the inch. Tilmellor's appearance is more disorganized than usual, and it's quite easy to see why. He seems to be descending into obsession over this--this _stupid_ little mage. Even as Ruverion reads, still, the other Altmer paces around the room, rambling about the mage. He mentions, repeatedly, a basement. Some sort of plan, relating to it, but Ruverion doesn't bother himself with listening.

"This is...most wonderful progress, Tilmellor," he lies through his teeth. "Alas, I'd love to stay to discuss your plans more, but we must be off. You surely understand that I am a very busy man, yes?"

"Oh, of course! Best of luck to you on your travels!"

"And best of luck to you in your research. Goodbye, Tilmellor." Ruverion backs out of the door, slamming it behind his guards. He scowls at the small building. "Gods, I can't wait to be anywhere else."

* * *

Tilmellor couldn't help but feel a tad discouraged at Ruverion's seemingly out-of-nowhere exit. He'd been waiting for quite a while to speak to him--he only showed up every six months for updates. But, he had complimented his work _and_ as he said--he was a very busy man. There was no reason to feel any resentment towards him. He was only doing his job as efficiently as he could, like the admirable mer he truly was. So, if Tilmellor wanted to earn his admiration, it would only be logical that he would do his own work just as efficiently. Which was precisely what he planned on doing. 

He returned to his desk, looming above it. There were plans in motion. Gears were ticking and working. He nearly _shook_ with anticipation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things begin to go awry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is up a bit early and i'm sorry about that but! i have been waiting to upload this all week! and i am not a patient person!
> 
> might wanna heed the warnings for this one

_3E 176, 11th of Frostfall_

_Is it not foolish to hope for some miraculous cure to rise from nowhere and help me? Suppose that I should be grateful, imbued with a blessing the likes of which many would kill for. Yet I feel nothing but bitter resentment towards this miserable curse of which she'd given me!_

_Oh, how I long for the caress of sunlight once more, to embrace me as an old lover and fill my bones with warmth. To watch the sun rise once more above the hills, bringing with it life and peace. The waving of long grass in the soft winds, the light pattering of leaves. Birds singing their melodic songs without dismay. People who dash through the fields like deer, not with terror but a distinct joy and energy. But it is not I, who will be with them there! No, no, I sit alone in this tower, just as all my ancestors hide in their own! With my snake-fang-teeth and bitter hatred for the waking world that remains all I have to accompany me in this miserable fort. Pointless, it is! I waste time with my experiments but what is the worth in it, if they are never to be used for anything?_

_I'd never longed for contact with other creatures before this, no. Suppose the Telvanni upbringing and morals I'd been endowed with have since faded, like a sun-bleached bone sat for too long in the desert. I'd been just as much an isolated soul as my peers back then. Yet, it's been nigh two hundred years since I contracted this wretched disease and now is when I feel the negative effects of loneliness!_

_Suppose I'll die, then? As though any other solution sits before me! I persevere and live, nonetheless, and I fail, always, to understand why. My siblings and fellow wizards could go for three hundred years without speaking a word to anyone, and they never felt the slightest bit bothered, I'm sure. So, if I am not like that, it is sure that I must be defective in some way more than this? Is it the impure blood through my veins, a disgusting human trait I've been cursed with without any opportunity to protest it? It isn't the disease, I believe--I watched as the infected came and went through the old towers, and they never once spoke to me. Well. None of them except for her._

_Miserable days remain ahead. Though I feed off animals, I believe it still leads up to a time in which I'll have to resume hunting for larger prey._

_What gods may I praise, now, that will not turn me away?_

_3E 176, 22nd of Sun's Dusk_

_Has it been so long since I've wrote that I've yet to recall how to pick up a quill? With the bite of winter on the near horizon, the days grow shorter. A cursed thing, for the woodcutters and farmers, laboring out in the last rays of sunlight in hopes to meet the quota of firewood, kindling or food. Relying on the children and apprentices they've taught to hold their own jobs, before the harsh weather forces them to draw into their homes, relying only on what they could store beforehand to get them through the harsh times. I sit in this tower, feasting on the blood of foolish animals._

_When Theva presented me with this curse, blessing, this repulsive disease of which has seized my flesh and bones, she had told me only of what she perceived as a blessing from it. "Your skin is made of ice and rot," she had said to me, tucked in the corner beside her bed as though she were still but a child. "the cold weaves around you as water off an Argonian's scales." She'd been wringing her hands, as she always was. The diseased hue of her flesh remained as unpleasant to see as it had the day I'd met her, though I still chose to listen to each word she spoke. If I could speak to myself from then, I would've told them--she is a siren, drawing you in with the calls of strength. You remain a fish, with her words the hook. Do you allow yourself to be drawn out of the safety of water?_

_But, I must give her some type of pardon, if only for the fact that the words she spoke were not wholly untrue; though snow pours from the skies and ice coats the ground, I feel not the pain of cold from it. Instead, the cold has already settled into my bones--my skin remains that of ice. I may sit in the sun for hours on end but all it presents me with is pain and harm. I am a cold creature, from the inside out. The sluggish flow of partially congealed blood in my veins serves nothing, the warmth from its consistent circulation now replaced with a feeling of numb that previously had only been obtainable in the dark hours of early Morning Star._

_Still now, though far more than decades have passed, when I close my eyes I can see her wicked grin. The sound of her voice, coarse as ash, and I remember her saying her excuses. "I never spoke a lie to you, sera, not one. It was not untruths that spilled from my mouth. Here you stand, furious with my actions, but all I see is someone who thought not to ask further questioning. Did you not notice that I never ate?"_

_Suppose I was the fool, then. It hadn't occurred to me, at that time, to reflect upon the course of action I had taken. By the time I thought to, it had been three weeks, and surely all that remained of Theva then was ash._

* * *

Tilmellor ran his eyes across the parchment, once, twice, three times over again. This had, eventually, become a part of his own routine--not unlike that of the Mage, he'd supposed. His incessant analysis of the notes he'd read a hundred times over, agonizing over words that he himself had written. It had grown to cut into his own sleep, but his energy didn't waver. There was a time for rest, a time for study, and the line had grown too blurred by now for him to distinguish each from each other. It mattered not to him, though. All that mattered was his hunt for anything, _anything_ against the Mage.

It had been nine months, by now. The year two-hundred thirty-one had faded out, the final days of Evening Star having set past in favor of Morning Star. The air remained crisp with cold, spring having yet to grace Skyrim. In those nine months, the Mage's routine had not once deviated. He would be lying if he said that it wasn't growing to bother him. 

Quite obviously, he wasn't the only one bothered by it, though. Taindor was growing more anxious with each passing day, avoiding Tilmellor as much as possible, lest the Altmer decide to take out his growing frustration on him. Dar'ara was growing more and more doubtful of whatever it was he hoped to find actually _existing_ , he could tell. She refused to voice her feelings to him, though, and as such, he didn't bother with bringing it up. It didn't matter. As long as they continued to do as he said, they wouldn't be punished--even if their heretical doubt was quite offensive.

At the rate things were going, even Jodhir, the second most enthusiastic at the prospect of what could be found, next only to Tilmellor himself, had grown quite tired with the routine. His claws itched for something new to do, his constant pacing whenever he was in Tilmellor's office instead of out stalking through the Mage's tower growing to grind on Tilmellor's nerves. Which, he supposed, would be hypocritical. It didn't stop him from voicing his irritation to the young Khajiit anyway.

If he was right, Taindor would be out at the tower now, though Dar'ara had begun to question why he was keeping spies there at all anymore. It was nigh-sundown, which, had it been Morndas or Fredas, meant that the mage would be preparing themself to leave. Routine, strict and orderly. Strict enough that Jyggalag Himself would likely find it to be bothersome. Tilmellor held his thumb between his teeth, grinding on the flesh with force just barely below breaking skin. It had taken days of analysis before he could gauge even the slightest _hints_ of patterns in the type of people the Mage typically abducted. Drunkards, farmers, woodcutters. Nords, Imperials, Bretons. It took too long, but he did have something to show for it--though it was small. People who wouldn't be missed. 

Town drunks who served only to irritate the better people. Farmers whose businesses barely counted for the annual crop, scrambling to ever keep enough money to not be forced to sell their land. Woodcutters who stuck only to mills, working dawn-to-dusk, before going back to bed and doing it once more in the morning. Fishermen who lived farther out of town, scholars who spent all their time in ruins or crypts, searching for some magic artifact to bolster them to a position of remarkable importance. Ex-legionnaires whose families would likely presume they'd died serving. Elders, whose families were all already dead or out of contact with them.

People who either did dangerous work, or people who wouldn't be looked for.

Tilmellor ran his tongue over his teeth.

Three days later came Fredas, and it was the morning after when Taindor burst frantically through his door. The Bosmer's leather armor was flecked with blood, though it was dried, and his expression was one of pure panic. Tilmellor shot to his feet immediately, words dying on his tongue as he tried to come up with them. Taindor beat him to it though, which was quite uncharacteristic--and only fueled the fire of Tilmellor's curiosity. Through heaving breaths, the wood elf spoke.

"The mage. They didn't leave."

Tilmellor froze. Excitement bubbled through him, his back straightening. It quickly dissipated into irritation, though. "Why, then, didn't you bring this information to me sooner?!" This was new. This was something new and unexpected, a break in the chain that had been oh-so-carefully crafted. He wasn't sure what this meant exactly, yet, but it didn't _matter_ \--after all this time, after almost a fucking _year_ , they were making progress. He tapped his fingers anxiously against his desk, a repetitive melody that he thought he remembered hearing once as a child, maybe.

"I--I, uh, came across a bear who, didn't really appreciate me being there. At all," Taindor said, fading to a mumble as the sentence went on. His skin dusted red with embarrassment. While that did explain the blood, Tilmellor sincerely couldn't have cared. So, he didn't respond, instead choosing to quickly gather his scattered notes. He scrambled for the most recent log he'd had--though, considering the lack of change, it hadn't been updated in a while. There hadn't been a point when the Mage hadn't been doing anything. Though, that had changed now. 

"Yesterday was Fredas, then, when they didn't leave," he muttered, mostly to himself. Taindor nodded anyway. "This, this is something. This is something _new_." His handwriting had long since grown sloppier over time, with his enthusiasm giving way to disappointment. He'd stopped expecting progress about a month ago.

He chewed on his thumbnail, scrawling words across the parchment. Fredas, the thirteenth of Morning Star, the first update of the two hundred-thirty second year. His hand shook as he wrote, but he didn't care enough to bother with berating himself over the miserable excuse of writing. "Taindor, Taindor, you've no clue, not a one, at how big this is. Yes, I assure you, this _will_ be the breakthrough that we need."

It was two weeks before the Mage left again, Dar'ara informed him. When they had, their behavior had been gravely _off_. Their calculated dash out of the tower, cloaked, had been forsaken. Instead, they tripped out of the house come midnight, disjointed movements casting an eerie scene out before the Khajiiti spy. Against her instincts, Dar'ara had trailed them for a bit--as far behind as she could without losing track of them. The Mage looked ragged, sickly. 

"The way they moved," Dar'ara had began, unsettled, "looked like something trying to mimic how a normal person would walk. Except not doing it well enough."

She'd followed them out for at least fourteen minutes. Sticking to taller grass, behind trees or ducking through the brush. The night air had bit the tips of her ears, hair pricking up in anticipated terror. She tamped down the part of her that was screaming at her to go back, stalking as though she was a wolf hunting a rabbit. It had gone well, almost, until she made her mistake. Closer than she had been before, she stepped wrong. A pebble rolled across the ground. The sound was quiet, unremarkable, but she could _see_ the Mage go dead still, and it was then that she realized she had it wrong. She hadn't been the wolf, then, but the rabbit. 

The Mage turned, teeth bared, staring dead at her. 

"Their _eyes_ ," Dar'ara hissed, "There was something wrong. There was a bad sort of hunger behind them." She leaned across Tilmellor's desk, pushing into his personal space. "It was not right. This one has seen many people, seen many creatures. But I have not seen something like _that._ "

Abruptly, she slammed backwards in her seat. "I do not think we should continue this, Tilmellor. The mage--they are not _normal_."

"We can't stop now!" Tilmellor shouted, standing at his full height. "Do you not see, Dar'ara? This is what we needed! This is what we have been _looking for_!" He slammed a hand onto his desk, disturbing the papers sitting there. "I know. I know that you want to give up, to leave this whole case behind. But you must consider--when has anyone gotten anywhere from giving up?" He leaned forward. "You have been here from the start, Dar'ara. At least see it to the finish."

She hesitated, drumming her fingers against her knee. Her ears remained pinned against her head, fur still bristled. With a sigh, she responded.

"Fine. I will stay--but. Not if this begins to go awry. This one does not wish to _die_ because of this."

Tilmellor smiled with glee. "Of course! Don't worry, this will all go perfectly, I assure you. I know what we must do. I do have a plan! Get me Jodhir, would you?" He squeezed his hands together. "We've been putting the obvious choice off long enough. No longer, Dar'ara. We will succeed. We must."

* * *

_3E, 200, 12th of Sun's Height_

_Sickly sweet is the flesh of rot, stuck between my teeth and leaving flecks of the taste still in the back of my throat, though weeks have passed. Suppose it wasn't the best idea to sate the thirst of blood by tearing through long-rotted and still-walking corpses, but I had been heading into the crypt anyway, and I had presumed it to be most efficient. Such is the power of hindsight, I know._

_Cyrodiil is much more riddled with the ruins fitting of that, anyway. Skyrim's draugr seem to be much more dried out. Their flaking skin clings to their bones, tongues still with shouts perched on them despite their decay. At least the zombies walking the Ayleid ruins still have veins, still have red meat. I must wonder why, though. Are they not close to the same age? Should the Ayleid's zombies not be equally as disgusting as draugr? It is a question I'd not presumed myself to be asking before this point, but I suppose anything can happen, really. I could look for reasoning between the pages of books. It isn't as though I've much else to do._

_Hunger is a harsh feeling in life, but I believe it must be harsher in death. When every color you see grows red, every heartbeat except the one you lack beating in your own ears. When you can smell the flow of food beneath the skin of mortals. It throws me into a sickening fog. All-consuming, destroying any chance I have at clear thought until I feast, sate the awful creature that crawls within me now. Oh, how tiring it is to exist still! Mortality truly was it's own type of prison, yes. The confine of death lurking always above you was something I had believed I would be far better off without. How I wish I could go back in time and spit in my past self's miserable face._

_Had I not died, I wonder where I would be. Morrowind was a harsh, angry land, and the Telvanni were not fully accepting of one of their own with human blood, but I did well off for myself. I often wonder still why I did leave at all. Why, of all places, would I choose to remain here in Skyrim? Trapped in this tower, lest any mage, priest or healer see my diseased face and know what I am. Cowering and trapped, like a skeever backed into a corner. Throwing prayers out to gods whom I don't hold faith in, anymore, with a foolish belief that they could ever help me. How pathetic I have grown!_

_I sit here now, surrounded by rats, as they may as well be all I'm equal to. I await the rot to take hold of me, to turn me into something akin to the zombies and draugr, stalking the halls of their tombs. Oh, how low I have fallen. I can almost hear my mother berating me, with a sore and bitter anger that she hadn't killed me in the womb. It's a tragedy, my existence. But I live nonetheless. Out of spite, maybe? Perhaps it is for the sole purpose of letting no-one say that Llalyn gave up. Or, maybe, it's simply because of cowardice. It matters not, does it? Focusing on an end that will never come is a pointless endeavor._

_Daedra consume me.  
_

* * *

Jodhir has twenty lockpicks sitting in his pack, three invisibility potions and--gods forbid he need to use them--three healing potions. It's a dark and cold Morndas evening, the threat of rain hanging heavy still, though the past day had been riddled with storms, in the smell of the air. His tail lashes from side to side, ears pricked up as to not miss any sounds. Tilmellor sent him in, for what he said would likely be the most important mission of the case. Granted, Tilmellor had said that about every mission before that. It didn't serve to quell Jodhir's excitement, though. Had he been smarter, he'd probably be riddled with anxiety, but he wasn't one for thinking of potential failure.

It wasn't long now, before the mage would leave their tower. If, of course, they were back on their routine. Tilmellor hadn't taken the news of a deviation in routine lightly--Jodhir wasn't sure what Dar'ara had told him, but it'd been moments before Jodhir was called into his office. He'd quickly been informed that he was to descend deeper than he had before.

He was to break into the mage's basement, this time.

Tilmellor's excitement had been palpable. The grin on his face had threatened to split it in half, and Jodhir would be lying if he said he wasn't almost equally as excited for it. They went over their plan quickly, likely quicker and less thoroughly than they should've. But Jodhir held faith that it would hold up just fine--he hadn't survived this long just to fail here. He was known for exceptional luck, truly. Though the plan was simple, he felt no worry. He was to break into the tower as soon as the mage left, wasting no time. When he made it in, he was to go straight for the basement. Instead of a torch, this time, he'd have only a candlelight spell to keep him from traipsing blind through the fort remains. When he was in the basement, he needed to observe as much as possible, and escape as quickly as possible. Sticking around for too long or leaving evidence that he'd been there could destroy the whole case. He had assured Tilmellor that he wouldn't disappoint, and that had began the waiting game.

Loredas gave way to Sundas, which gave way at last to Morndas. He'd traveled out with Dar'ara come noontide, stepping through the thick sludge of mud that waited from the rain. They had left and arrived late, and Taindor had seemed thrilled to see them. He'd barely given them an update before he ran off, his eagerness to be as far from the tower as possible as obvious as ever. They'd sat, getting as comfortable as one could be when crouched in a patch bushes, water from the leaves above them dripping onto their heads. Dar'ara had pulled out a book she'd taken, focusing her attention on it in contrast to the mage. Jodhir found that he couldn't blame her. The waiting was _agonizing_.

Jodhir was flipping over rocks, counting how many different types of insects he could find--six, he'd counted that far--when the mage left. They were cloaked again, this time, but instead of their usual fast-paced walk, they were at a full-fledged _run_ from their tower. In the back of his head, he wondered what actually was bothering this much, but he didn't bother dwelling on the thought. He counted thirty seconds before he dashed out of the brush, stopping only once he made it to the door. When he found it unlocked, he did hesitate. It was...suspicious, really. But, they did seem panicked. A break in routine after--what had Dar'ara said? Nine months? However long, it didn't seem remotely out of the question for them to have forgotten a lock. He pushed the door open, dismissing his concern. 

Gently closing the door behind him, he edged his way to the basement door. The coppery smell that he couldn't quite place hit him again. He cast the candlelight, holding it by the lock as he fished for his picks.

The basement lock was difficult, even for one of his talent. He must've worked through at least eight of the picks before he heard the tell-tale click of victory. Gathering the broken pieces on the floor, he stuffed them back in his pack. He was growing jittery, both nervous and ecstatic. When he pushed open the heavy, reinforced-wood door, the smell hit him far harder than he expected, even at the top of the stairs. He held back a gag, easing his way down the steps.

It felt as though every sound he made echoed through the stairwell, his confidence growing smaller and smaller with each step. From deeper within the basement, he felt that he could hear dripping--something thicker than water, definitely, and the dread within him only grew. His candlelight failed to give much comfort, the void-like darkness beyond it's soft glow consuming everything unfortunate enough to have fallen into it. He refused to turn back, though. There would be no point in returning with nothing to report but failure, for Tilmellor would likely only send him back come Fredas.

He was looking for information to bring to Tilmellor.

He wasn't prepared for what he found at the bottom of the stairs. 

He wasn't prepared for a hand clamped over his mouth. A cold, lifeless-feeling hand.

"You think I don't notice when I'm being _watched_ , sera?" A voice that he couldn't place hissed into his ear, softly. Jodhir couldn't find it within himself to try and scream. The smell of blood was nigh overwhelming. Dar'ara wouldn't be able to hear him from here, even if he tried.

The last thought he had, before a sharp pain struck his neck and he blacked out, was that, on second thought, he actually really _really_ fucking hated Tilmellor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see y'all next friday, in which this thing Finally Wraps Up!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no one is happy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it isn't the final chapter, here at last. bit longer than the other ones, i think
> 
> warnings for blood, some animal death (not too major but you can never be too careful), minor mention of vomiting in one line, kind of starvation, mmmminor self-harm???? very un-fun times in general yikes

_3E 331, 12th of Frost Fall_

_He skitters around the tower like my rats, thinking that I wouldn't notice anything off. But I can smell the traces of footsteps long since gone and I know he's been here. The little thing probably thinks that he's above failure, above the law and repercussions. Sometimes it isn't the law that you need to worry about finding you, though._

_I know the way around my prison of a tower better than any thief could hope to, and I know how to remain unseen in the shadows. He might be cocky, but I'm far more wise in the art of hunting than he can hope to be in the art of spying. He is a deer in the den of a wolf, a bear, a monster beyond mortal comprehension. He is a fool. The day I rend the flesh from his bones shall be a glorious one indeed, for perhaps that will get my message across better. The bastards think that I don't notice them, do they? Miserable s'wits. I entertained them for long enough, letting them skulk around as though they belonged. It won't last much longer, now._

_I smell the flow of blood beneath their skin. I can hear their heartbeats ringing in my ears. This is the curse of an immortal, but it is now that it shows its blessings. I am the apex predator. They fear me and they should, for I am powerful in ways they cannot_ begin _to understand. A daunting foe to the knights in shining armor, teeth like snake-fangs and eyes of burnt starvation. They dare to think that they can challenge me but they have not the slightest idea what they place themselves up against. I am a leviathan that they could never dream to beat. Their screams of terror as I tear their throats open is music to my ears, their skin the canvas of injury I inflict on them. I am the unbeatable demon that dwells in their deepest fears, stalks the shadows of their nightmares. I am immortal, impossible to kill, invincible. They think that they can do anything to me? They think that they know the forces of which they meddle with?_

_Fools. I will feed upon their regret just as I feed upon their blood._

* * *

"Auriel," Tilmellor began, hunched over a makeshift-shrine in the corner of the building. "I fail to understand. I fail to understand what I have done to deserve this bitter failure." His fingers dug into his arms. The fabric of his robes prevented his nails from breaking through his skin. He was almost irritated with the fact. "Have I wronged you? Have I done something to displease you, to invoke your wrath? I don't know. I don't understand what I've done." Somewhere in the far distance of the woods, a bird sang loudly. Tilmellor wanted to hunt it down only to snap its neck. A furious grin plastered itself across his face.

"I do so much," he whispered, gripping his arms harder. His knuckles turned white. "So, so much. I don't understand." His eyes stung with salty tears threatening to fall down his face. He drew his lips back into a snarl. If one were to look just a tad harder, they could notice his shaking. The air in the room felt colder than it should be, sinking through his clothes and skin, resting on his bones like a thin layer of morning frost on grass. He wasn't sure whether or not Taindor was at the tower still. He knew Dar'ara wouldn't be, though.

When Jodhir had failed to return, she'd been furious. Furious at Tilmellor more than at the Mage, it had seemed. She'd kicked the door to his office open, storming in without regard for respect. Her voice had been a low hiss, dripping with thinly veiled malice. She'd leaned close to his face and kept her words quiet, but her claws had sank into the wooden desk and it was clear that she wasn't here for a civil discussion.

"Look at what you have _done_ ," she'd growled, fur bristled and ears pinned to her head. Her eyes narrowed, somehow managing to harden her glare. "Is this what you wanted to happen? Was this the intended result?"

His reaction had apparently not been good enough for her. He would admit that Jodhir's death was a relative loss--but there was no time to sit and mourn when this only brought more cause for concern to the table. Such as the fact that this likely meant the Mage would be on to something. When he'd voiced this, however, Dar'ara had only bristled more, hissing like a house-cat thrown in water. Shoulders squared, she'd stared daggers at him, hostility threatening to boil over into outright violence. Her fist rose into the air quickly, slamming down onto the table between them quicker. Her tail lashed like a whip, claws scratching across the desk--which was probably worth more septims than her life. It was a few seconds before she spoke again, her voice having lost the built-up anger, boiled over into animosity. 

"This one wants no part of your death-wish schemes," she said, and those had been her last words to him. He hadn't attempted to stop her from leaving. No point in trying to keep the dead-weight anchored to the ship. 

At the very least, he did still have Taindor. Though the Bosmer wasn't quite as skilled as Dar'ara, he knew better than to try and cross Tilmellor. His faith may falter but his loyalty remained, though it was likely more out of fear. The reasons behind his compliance didn't matter. What mattered was that Tilmellor still had some sort of chance at keeping tabs on the Mage from a distance. What mattered was that Taindor wasn't stupid enough to try and pull a stunt like Dar'ara. What mattered was that Tilmellor wouldn't have to have some words with his higher-ups about _two_ disobedient spies.

He placed his forehead on the edge of the shrine's stand, cold oak wood pressing his hair to his skin. Dust floats through the air with an unfitting sort of grace, catching the light filtering in through the cracks in the roof and filling the air with glowing specks. The sun sits at its highest point, tinting the ground a soft yellow. Its warmth fails to reach the world, though, cold tongues of wind hitting the walls, creeping under the door and causing bumps to raise across his arms, even through his robes. His words are no more than hushed whispers falling from his lips, disturbing the air in front of his face. His breathing is unsteady. He wants to gnaw at the edge of his nails, sink his teeth through the skin on his fingers and taste the stinging copper. He wants to fret. He was raised better than that.

His alabaster hair brushed his nose irritatingly. Dropping to sit on his knees, he rocks back and forth. There are little bumps raised on his skin, his arms, the effect of the cold. He wants to cut them _off_.

"I do so very much to serve you, Auriel. To hold true to the purity of the Aldmeri ancestry of which you have blessed me with, yet you seem to not care." His voice sounded strained, even quiet as his words were, and he wanted to laugh at how pathetic he was. Oh, if Ruverion could've seen him. "Have you abandoned me?" he'd asked the god, and he'd received no answer.

It had been one year since the case was opened. Nine months since Ruverion gave him permission to go along in pursuing it, despite it seeming pointless. Three months since Jodhir was taken, taken as though he was just another one of the miserable curs that the Mage took from cities, from towns and families and villages where there wouldn't be anyone looking for them after. Three months since Dar'ara abandoned the project like a _coward_. His hands shook. It was a year now, a year since he started this. How many years would it be before he ended this? Before the Mage killed him like he was some sort of common wretch? Before Ruverion gave up on his miserable little side project, before Ruverion gave up on Tilmellor?

His hands were shaking.

It had been one year. He sucked in a breath, held it. Breathed out. Gathered himself, just as he was taught to. Because he was taught well. He had been raised well, educated and _cultured_. His parents hadn't been allowed to-- _selected_ to reproduce only to have some sort of defect as a child. He had been raised to be an ideal Thalmor agent, and he wouldn't let himself sit on the floor like some sort of lowlife, weeping over some fucking flaw in the plan. Whether it was his own plan or the gods', he wasn't sure. His eyes stung when he rubbed his hands to them, wiping away tears like a pathetic child. He grimaced.

Rising to his feet again, he trudged to his desk, hovered over it like a mother-bird with her children. Words blended together into an unintelligible amalgam, his elegant handwriting having given way to quick, unorganized notes on the edges of parchment, words scratched out and scrawled around. After hours of standing, tapping his fingers against leather book covers that'd been stacked and left to gather dust and trying to make sense of chicken-scratch writing done in a rush, the door pushed open and Taindor let himself in. The Bosmer kept his head down, dashed over to the supply chest and dug around for whatever he wanted now--food or potions, likely. Tilmellor didn't bother greeting him. He only spoke when Taindor was about to leave, the wood elf's hand sitting on the door.

"There is progress to be made, you know. This is not a futile effort. You'd best place your trust in that."

Taindor stopped, hesitated. He responded though, his voice subdued. "Of course, Tilmellor. I have... I have faith in you."

Though the Bosmer's words were likely a lie, hissed through gritted teeth, Tilmellor still grinned. He absently flicked a book open to the first page, ran his fingers down the worn paper. "Off you go, then," he uttered. Taindor wasted no time in running out, as though there was a damned wolf on his heels. Birds sang in the distance, their honey-sweet melody ringing through the morning air. Tilmellor's grin grew vicious.

* * *

_3E 332, 9th of Morning Star_

_The bite of a monstrosity sits on my neck and though it has been years, decades, the wound still bitterly stings. I wonder if this is how she felt? When whatever tragedy that might've occured did occur, and whatever mortality she'd had then was ripped from her in the gnashing fangs of the undead. When the unforgiving cold of death gripped her and left her empty and frozen, her only thoughts those of an unsatiable hunger. I wonder about her a lot, perhaps more than I should, especially after all this time. But there was so little about her that I really knew, looking back. She was just an infected thing, settled around us because she had nowhere else to go. I wonder if she ever considered me a friend as I considered her. I thought so at the time, but now? With this pain in my neck, with the starvation and darkness I've long since resigned myself to? I doubt it._

_Theva was an abomination, that much is sure. Suppose I am as well. I might've always been, really. It didn't take much to get acquainted with the art of hunting, the art of killing, so maybe I had it in me since my birth. Maybe this is the string of fate I'd always been connected to, and Theva was another necessary mark on the map of my wretched life. Or, maybe this isn't what the gods had intended--maybe it isn't my business to know. I just know that I am hungry, still. I always am._

_I always will be._

_I do wish I could pity those who make the mistake of being in my way, of becoming nothing more than a creature to be hunted, but after so long it has grown hard to see them as anything more. I am a beast, a bear hunting rabbits. Those of my kind are either allies or rivals, with no in between. Mortals are simply food, now. Just fountains of blood waiting to be drained. I am no more than a set of fangs waiting on their next meal. It isn't a positive mindset, by any means, of course. But I haven't ever been a positive person anyway, and it isn't as though I've anyone to change for. I am as I was, and I am what I will be. Things change and the world changes, but I remain a constant. Undying and yet still not living, just a reclusive mage hiding in their tower._

_I can't help but feel as though the gods have abandoned me._

* * *

It's three months before Taindor stops showing up entirely. Tilmellor grabs someone from the alley of a city, holds a dagger to their throat and hisses demands at them to go find him, but the wood elf isn't at the tower either. There isn't a trace left of the Bosmer, and considering how gutless he is, it's unlikely that he tried to break into the tower. There's really no other way to twist it--Taindor abandoned the case entirely when it got to a point he couldn't handle. _Like a coward._ But despite that, Tilmellor pushed his seething rage to the back of his mind, forced himself to show a cool and collected demeanor as always, though he'd like to track the ex-spy down and gut him alive. He doesn't send a notification to his higher-ups, lest they consider that he may be the problem and _remove_ him. 

No, he lets the weak willed bastard run free.

Maybe he would exact revenge, one day. Burn the flesh from the Bosmer's bones, but use enough restoration to keep him alive for it. Never let him embrace death, of course. That would be a mercy he wouldn't have earned, a mercy he would've lost the option to get the second he had a single thought about betraying Tilmellor. For now, though, he could only dream of that. Because there were far, far more important things than some scrappy elf who thinks he's better than he ever will be. With a cruel grin, he strides into his office. It remains as it always was, unorganized and isolating, with a sort of unsettling stillness. He keeps his gaze set on his desk, at the parchment sitting on them. The maps. 

He'd not looked at them in a long while--there hadn't been much of a need to with their infiltrator dead. He looms over them, staring at the scratchy sketches of the tower's interior, the halfhearted attempts at drawing he'd made to mark where anything of interest could be. He pored over the papers, staring at the details and wondering where the Khajiit had gone wrong to get himself killed. Planning out how it could be done _better_ , if he was just given the opportunity. 

And he stands there, paces about, waits for weeks before Ruverion's next visit is due. On the day of his planned arrival, he sits at his desk, hands folded neatly in his lap, staring at the door in a way he hopes isn't to desperate seeming. When the other Altmer and his guards saunter in, he nearly jumps out of the chair in excitement. Of course, he contains himself--crushes his emotions down until they're no more than dust, not daring to risk making a fool of himself. Ruverion, donning an exasperated expression, sits across from him, his posture and body language radiating grace and superiority. Tilmellor straightens up out of habit.

Ruverion greets him with a tired 'hello, Tilmellor', his head lightly tilted forward. Tilmellor smiles kindly. His fingers feel jittery.

"Hello, Ruverion," he says in a sing-song tone. He leans his entire body forward, slightly. "I do suppose you've come to get an update on the Mage's case, yes?" His eagerness to gush about the case is still palpable, even after all this time. He throws himself back into his original position, back straight. "Well, I--"

"No," Ruverion interrupts, his stoic voice like a dagger being twisted inside Tilmellor's chest. He stares, blankly, looking into Ruverion's half-lidded eyes.

"I--what?"

"You heard me, Tilmellor. We don't need you to continue with this case." Ruverion's tone is cold, cold and unfeeling as always. The last part comes out more of a whisper, hooked onto the end of a sentence. "We never did, really."

Ruverion holds Tilmellor's heart in his hands and he crushes it without so much as flinching. He opens his mouth to speak, but Ruverion continues over him. He sinks his teeth into his lip.

"There is nothing to be gained from wasting your time and talent there, Tilmellor. You will stop pursuing it immediately." His voice is apathy, unfeeling and disconnected to the situation, and though Tilmellor would love to gush poetic over it, the only feelings it now invokes in him are those of betrayal and anger. Of sadness. He gapes for a moment, like a fish pulled out of water and thrown onto the gravelly sand.

"You can't--I--I swear, I swear there is much to be gained here! I'm always making progress on it, and--"

" _No_ , Tilmellor," Ruverion says, as though he were reprimanding a child who'd made some idiotic mistake. "You will stop continuing this, or you will stop being of any use to the Thalmor. You don't want that, do you?"

" _Please_ ," he croaks. The room lightly spins. "I just need--I just need more _time_. You can't do this"

"We've given you _more than enough_ time," is the hissed response he's met with, and the hostility sounds so piercing coming from that voice. He chokes on his words, unsure of what comes out over the deafening, silent buzz in his ears. Ruverion sighs, long and dispassionate. He continues. "Listen, I don't _hate_ you. Not as much as I could. So I'll give you three days to finish your business here and relocate. Fair?"

Tilmellor thinks that he must nod, unable to think over the water filling his senses, clogging his nose and ears and lungs. The room spins. Ruverion leaves, taking his guards with him and Tilmellor sits in the dusty cabin in which he's spent over a year. Ruverion stalks off through the forest, vanishing without a trace--as any Thalmor agent should be able to--and Tilmellor sits, replaying the conversation once, twice, three times over in his head until it becomes a droning loop, the backdrop to his thoughts. He's been made keenly aware of how replaceable he is before, but coming from someone he's always held in such high regard it feels far more biting. He chews his nails like a feral wolf gnawing on bones long since stripped of meat, tracing out the patterns in the wood of his desk. He feels like he wants to scream, but any sound feels like being _stabbed_. He is replaceable. He is replaceable to _Ruverion_.

He needs to do something. He needs to do something, anything, anything to make himself useful and make them _see_. There is something going on and he wants them to know it, to be as aware of it as he is. He wants to be praised, held in highest regard for years to come for how good he's always been at getting things done, figured out. The Mage has gripped his life and purpose in iron and steel and there isn't letting go until he knows, knows what they are. He wants to--

\--not be replaceable.

The birdsong is a consistent sound, every day. It's a light, sweet tune, ringing throughout the woods, carried by the gentle wind. It would be a nice day--golden sunlight softly filters its way through small cracks between the wooden slabs of ceiling, between the bits of straw on top of them. Flecks of dust catch the light and look uncharacteristically lovely, dancing through the air. His breathing is sharp, distinctly wrong. There's no time to appreciate the scenery. There is no one left to help him, not anymore. His hands shake. There is something to be done, still. 

It's dusk, the sun sinking low, sky still lit up orange and pink when he slips out. The tall stone tower looms like a leviathan, atmosphere crackling with some distinct _hunger_. The heavy fabric of his cloak sits soothingly on his shoulders, serving as an anchor. He hardens his face into something serious, something disconnected and apathetic. Once, twice, he knocks his fist against the cold wooden door. Something shuffles from within the stone walls and the sound of a lock slowly clicking out of place meets him. 

A pale, sickly face stared out the doorway at him. If looks could kill, he was sure he'd be dead on the spot. Clearing his throat, he spoke, putting as much emphasis as possible on anything that would enhance his Altmeri accent.

"Might I enter?" he asked, and despite him providing no reason why he _needed_ to be there, the door creaked open. The Mage stared at him, expressionless. He choked down his dread.

* * *

The lack of respect that the Mage held for an agent of the Thalmor would have been easily anticipated--the Dunmer were... not fond of them, really. But what Tilmellor had been unable to predict was the sheer _level_ of disrespect that this insufferable _half-breed_ would ever dare to show towards him. Their ardent refusal to answer anything he said, only occasionally mumbling something too low for him to hear, their lack of any sort of hospitality, their refusal to acknowledge his presence. The only positive thing he could really say about the _rat_ was the fact that they had, at the very, very least, summoned a Candlelight when he entered the tower.

The interior of the tower did match what Jodhir had told him, he noted. A bookshelf sat beside the door, titles all sideways, unreadable unless he were to tilt his head. Which was a far too stupid-looking gesture for him to consider. While the Mage was here, at least. Dust was collecting on most of them--dust was collecting on mostly _everything_ , actually. There was some coppery smell hanging in the air. He wasn't sure if he would rather hope it _was_ or hope it _wasn't_ blood.

"You live here alone, then?" he asked, tone dismissive and even. The Mage made a sound that could be taken as agreeing. He gave the stone walls a look that could kill.

Though he hated to admit it, he hadn't found anything incriminating thus far. The weight of unease sat heavy in his stomach, doubt a cold caress on his cheek. If he found nothing here, then it would mean that Ruverion was right--everything Tilmellor had been working on for the past year would've been futile. Pointless. Nothing more than a waste of his time and his effort. He didn't think he could deal with that, not really. Not when it would surely mean the disapproval of his higher-ups. Not when it could mean re-education.

_Never_ when it could mean re-education.

With a bitter huff, he ran his hands over his robes, smoothing out the wrinkles. If the glimpses of the outside that he catches from the holes between the stones in the wall are any hint, the orange-pink sky has since given way into a cold, inky void. Which means that it would've had to have been at least two hours of talking to this unresponsive half-elven _creature_. And yet, he had nothing to go off of. No leads to take him forward, no suspicions to warrant arrest. The Mage is just that--a mage. An odd, isolated mage; painfully average, if you take their lineage into account. 

But if that was the truth, the truth would be that Tilmellor had failed.

He refused to tolerate failure.

So he asks the same question in a hundred different ways, looming over the Mage with suspicion and anger in his glare. He grips onto anything he can see, any little sound he can hear and he analyzes it six times over. He leans back on any sort of training he's had to prepare him for interrogations. The Mage doesn't seem phased, though. Irritation grips his throat, drawing back like a snake preparing to bite. He grits his teeth.

After another hour of this, among the hissed threats of violence he'd soon descended into, he says "You're hiding something. You think that you can avoid the wrath of the Thalmor?"

And the Mage smiles, at that. 

"You want to know my secrets?" they drawl, head tilting to one side--in the back of his head, he notices something wrong about their teeth. They lean forward, head inclining with the motion. "I'll tell you them, if you _really_ think you've gotta know." 

And they stare at him, yellow eyes burning holes through his skin. He feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up, a cold, frightened sensation working its way down his back. It's the first time the Mage has given him any response other than their quiet sounds and jumpy reactions. They're too calm, now, an unsettling serenity when moments before they had seemed ready to flee or attack at the slightest provocation. There's some part of him telling him that this isn't worth it. That he should leave, by this point, crawling back to Ruverion and begging for him to please not lose what little faith he might hold in Tilmellor. But he's never been one for giving up, has he?

"I assure you, I'm quite certain of my decisions."

And the Mage _grins_.

The door to the basement creaks when it opens, a sound like splintering wood quietly coming from it. The air in the doorway is the closest thing to a middle ground between the upper floor's mild chill and the freezing cold of the lower room. The Mage's steps are uneven down the old stone stairs, and Tilmellor sincerely can't recall any other point in time that he's been quite this tense. 

The only sound he can hear is the quiet footsteps surrounding them in the cramped stairwell, echoing off the walls and back to his ears. The coppery smell grows progressively stronger with each step he takes, and he clenches his hands into fists, digging his fingertips into his palms. His feelings of unease have only worsened since he stepped through the doorway, and it's only now that he begins to really regret his decision. He's not well rested, yes, but he does still have enough magicka to fight if need be. If he manages to hit the Mage right with some sparks, it could very well buy him the time he'd need to escape. Except, he doesn't know enough about the Mage to know how resistant they are to magic--his speculations are still that they might be part Breton which...could complicate things a good bit. While they look sickly, they've apparently been able to make all those they lured to their tower _disappear_ , and he does have doubts about if he'd actually be physically strong enough to hold his own against them. Dar'ara had always been concerned, slightly, over how little he ate. He'd brushed her off with little thought.

He's beginning to regret a lot of things, looking back now.

It's a quiet, wordless walk, until they're maybe halfway down the stairs. The Mage stops, turns around and stares at him. If he wanted to, he's sure he could've pushed them backwards, down the steps. His fingers twitch. They open their mouth and he has to strain his ears to hear the words, hushed whispers into the heavy air. The smell of copper is overpowering, here.

"You're not as clever as you think you are," they state, and their voice sounds as sickly as they look, now. 

And he tenses up, moves his hands to shove the Mage back but he isn't given enough time to react. Their cold form hits him hard and he's falling, and something _sharp_ sinks into his neck. And he thinks he might be yelling, might be screaming, but the only sound that meets him is the sound of ringing. His head hits something--the ground, probably--hard. Everything is blurred. 

The Mage stands over him, looming, a shadow in the middle of his vision.

Everything is dark.

* * *

_3E 401, 17th of Last Seed_

_It has been far longer than I thought, since I was infected, since this all began. While I loathe to say it, I fear that my life soon comes to its conclusion. Time and time again, I did have doubts about if it was truly worth it, to exist as this monstrosity. But with my end before my eyes, I must admit--I am afraid. I am afraid of an unavoidable death, one that I can't come back from. I know better than to say that I'm alive, here, and I know better than to say I don't deserve this. Maybe I do. But I'm not ready for it. I'm not ready to be sent to wherever the Daedra have deemed me to belong. I'm not ready to leave this plane._

_I've done things that could make a weaker-willed person weep. There is blood on my hands, blood on my teeth. I know this, I know this and I've lived with this. It wasn't that I never felt remorse, guilt. I did, of course. But I buried it, because there was little other choice for me. There was no cure, no magic, no priest that could help me. Is this what it feels like, to be hunted like an animal? Is this what those whose blood I fed upon felt, this terror? I don't know, anymore. I only know that they're coming for me, now. I only know that I won't survive._

_If anyone ever finds this journal, let it not be known who I was. Let it serve as a warning to be distrustful. Let it serve as a warning to not make the same mistakes as I. Let it be burned or buried, once you read it. Let it be forgotten. Let me be forgotten. It is my last, and only wish._

_Know that the gods have abandoned me._

_-Lluves_

* * *

It's cold, moisture hanging in the air and clinging to his skin and his tattered, worn robes. It's the kind of cold that sinks deep past skin and flesh and settles uncomfortably on your bones, sinks into your blood. He's freezing, rocking back and forth and gripping his arms hard enough to turn his knuckles white. He hasn't been warm in a long, long time. 

His nails are chewed down to nubs, and he moves until his fingers are twisted in his hair and he wants to _scream_ , but he's done enough of that to make his throat hoarse and sore. So he keeps his mouth shut, rocks back and forth and back and forth. It hurts, the starvation, but it's been minutes or hours or decades since he's last been anywhere but here and he's grown used to it--as much as one can be used to it, he supposes. There's a consistent drip, somewhere, water off a stalactite, and it grinds his nerves down into a fine dust. He's shaking like a leaf in the middle of a storm and he hates it, hates everything about this, about anything.

In the beginning when he woke up, despite his hunger, he'd chose to not feed. Rats would scurry around, in arm's reach, and he had ignored them. But that only lasted so long, and he'd been so hungry, and there was fur and viscera stuck between his teeth and he'd felt so sick, so disgusting. It had barely done anything to stop his slow, agonizing starvation but it was all he could've done, wasn't it? So he ate, and he choked and he felt like he was going to throw up, but he never did. He sat as far from the bodies as possible and he ignored the fat tears rolling down his gaunt cheeks and he rocked back and forth and back and forth.

He'd tried to curl into himself and sleep, at first, but the nightmares were relentless, violent as the images they held within them. It was only after so long that he discovered that feeding could curb his need to sleep and he'd hated it, hated everything he was doing but he still did it, still needed to survive. He'd still needed to _survive_. 

It wasn't living, though.

It was cold, cold and suffocating and heavy. 

His neck _hurt_ , like a dagger had been shoved through it. Dried blood was caked onto it before and though he scrubbed it off with murky water from the ceiling he still felt no cleaner. But he could ignore that. He could ignore the throbbing pain in his neck and he could ignore the insomnia, the nightmares. He could live with feeling disgusting and feeding from the blood of _rats_. What scared him wasn't any of that, no.

What scared him was the isolation.

What scared him was his _teeth_.

Water drips down from the ceiling and it hits a puddle forming near the wall of the cavern, consistent and routine. One, two, three seconds go by and another drop, another quiet sound as it joins the rest of them. He rocks back and forth, back and forth, one-two, one-two. His fingers twist in his hair and he wants to _scream_ , he's so cold and so tired and he hasn't seen sunlight in such a long long time. Before he hadn't often stopped to appreciate it, anyway. He'd been busy, then, busy doing the Thalmor's work and trying to please Ruverion when it never worked, never worked and oh, what an _idiot_ , what a fool he was, and he'd never bothered to care about something like the sunshine because he'd never thought there'd be a day when he would _miss it_.

(Some part of him still wishes he could hold Ruverion, some part of him that only speaks when his mind isn't clouded by starvation and the sickening smell of blood that he yearns for despite his disgust.)

He can't remember how he got here, really. Maybe the Mage had dumped him here after--whatever had happened, whatever they'd done. All he knew was he had wandered in circles for days, weeks or maybe it had been only hours. There was no way out, that he had found then, no way to get out and he had screamed for so long; whether it was in hopes someone would hear him, hopes that someone would save him or if it was only because he had no other choices, no other ideas on what he was supposed to do, he wasn't sure. And so he sits, curled into a corner and he rocks back and forth. He's cold and he's tired, he's so fucking tired.

It's been so long since he was stuck down here and he's starving, and he's afraid and his teeth are sharp snake-fangs in his mouth. He's paler than he was ever before and he's no more than skin and bones, but he wonders if the latter is anything new, because how long did he go without eating, when he was still something that could be truly considered alive? He can't remember, he can't remember anything. He's starving, now.

(He'd made a mistake, he'd made a horrible mistake and he was afraid, he is afraid and he's screaming and he doesn't sleep, anymore and his teeth--)

He rocked back and forth, and water dripped from the stalactite on his right, far against the wall of the cavern. He chews on his fingertips and despite skin breaking, there is no blood, nothing from it. His teeth are fangs, snake fangs in his mouth and they are _wrong_ , out of place and wrong and he hates this, _he hates this_. He hates his nightmares, hates himself for having refused to abandon his stupid, stupid project and he hates his teeth, his fangs, long pointed razors in his mouth and he wants to scream. He wants to scream, but his voice is hoarse and his throat aches, a shooting pain in his neck, so he rocks back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you !! very much !! for reading!!! 
> 
> this started out mostly as wordbuilding practice, just kind of spitting tilmellors backstory out? but it ended up a lot longer than i thought it would  
> i hope it was somewhat enjoyable ! i'm ;) open to ;) critique ;) (my tumblr is open to anonymous hate mail if that's more your style ;))
> 
> my main tumblr (which has links to where i am on other sites): https://tinclown.tumblr.com/
> 
> aaand if you wanna talk about tes or anything i also have a tes sideblog: https://mathieuwu-bellamont.tumblr.com/
> 
> thank you again for reading my garbage fire it genuinely means a lot

**Author's Note:**

> here's my tumblr if anyone cares: https://tinclown.tumblr.com/  
> it has a link to my tes sideblog (also my deviantart, where i'm a bit more active)


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